Amuse-Bouche

Arnon Grunberg

Description

When you're dead, I figure you can quit adjusting to other people, but until then life is all about adjusting.' So reflects Arnon Grunberg, as he finds himself high-fiving an elderly drug-dealer and her husband in a Las Vegas hotel room. Bizarre, garrulous, self-confident, often desperately lonely; such is the variety of characters Grunberg meets in Amsterdam or New York it s thanks only to this ability to adjust, and quietly tune in, that we re able to share so many private worlds, or be moved by the most fleeting encounters. From the rich widow blowing her husband's fortune on slot machines because she doesn't believe in an afterlife, to the language student telling of her arrival in America under the hood of a truck, Grunberg moves effortlessly between worlds. Be it cynical high society New York, claustrophobic family arguments back in Amsterdam, or simply small-talking with waiters in the people-watching capital of the world, Grunberg steals glimpses deep into the most guarded of lives, sharing moments of joy and absurdity at every turn. The perfect appetiser for a major, emerging voice.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Comma Press
• Date de parution: 27 octobre 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910974896
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Comma Press
www.commapress.co.uk
Copyright © Arnon Grunberg, 2001
This translation copyright © Lisa Friedman & Ron de Klerk, 2008
All rights reserved.
First published in Amsterdam as Amuse-Gueule by Nijgh & Van Ditmar, 2001.
The moral rights of Arnon Grunberg to be identified as the Author of this Work, and of Lisa Friedman and Ron de Klerk to be identified as the Translators of this Work, have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patent Act 1988.
This collection is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges assistance from the Arts Council England North West. With the support of the Culture Programme (2007-2013) of the European Union.

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.
‘I have never described myself. I have only betrayed myself.’
- Max Frisch, Montauk
Contents

Miele's Mouth

The Days of Leopold Mangelmann

Ushi and Septembrius

Letter to M

The Accordion

Johanna, The Book

Jola The Dancer

We Learn English by Talking to Each Other

Ingoh Biegmann, Discoverer of Talent

My Mother's Men

Chastisement

Tina II

Fish Hunting

Rabbit Warren

A Fine Trade

Refrigerator

Money Plague

Carrots

Watermelon

Tuesday

Left Shoe

Slapped

Mopping Up

Pliers

Meeting With The Consul

Kisselgoff


Afterword
Miele's Mouth


MY FIRST CONTACT with the actor couple Adrian and Patricia Miele was in the late summer of 1994. Adrian Miele called me one hot Sunday afternoon. After dropping his name he paused. My God, I thought, I have Adrian Miele on the phone.
During the months after my first book came out, all kinds of people approached me. But there wasn’t anyone of Adrian Miele’s stature among them.


Dear Mr Grunenberg,
On behalf of the television programme Forum, I would like to invite you to appear on the programme of 19 September. Forum critically examines current events and our subject for September is the 50th anniversary of the Battle of Arnhem.
Would it be convenient for one of our editors to visit your mother beforehand? We would like to discuss some general questions such as: What was your mother doing during the Battle of Arnhem?
We are looking forward to having your mother and yourself on the programme with us.
We hope to receive your affirmative response.
Sincerely, and on behalf of the programme presenter, Geert Stuif, as well,
Marie-Louise Kistemaker


Dear Miss Kistemaker,
Many thanks for your invitation to appear on your television programme Forum.
Unfortunately, neither my mother nor I have anything useful to say about the Battle of Arnhem.
I regret that I cannot provide you with a more positive reply.
Best regards,
Arnon Grunberg

‘Hello,’ I said, playing for time. ‘The connection isn’t very good. Are you there?’ That week’s mail was staring at me from my desk.

Dear Mr Grunberg,
More than fifteen years ago, I attended the Vossius Gymnasium, just like yourself. I also grew up in Amsterdam South. I would very much enjoy exchanging experiences with you.
I can offer you anything except my body.
Please call me in the evenings after 8pm.
Fransje ‘t Hart
P.S. Your book is my bible.

Dear Miss ‘t Hart,
I am taking the liberty of writing to you rather than calling you after 8pm. You offer me everything except your body.
I’m afraid at this time I can accept neither.
Thank you very much for your kind letter.
Best regards,
Arnon Grunberg.

When Adrian Miele apparently thought the silence had lasted long enough he said, ‘I would like to invite you over to our place. We could sit in the garden and talk. See what we can do together.’
‘Talking is fine with me, Mr Miele,’ I said with a slight lump in my throat. Adrian Miele, voted handsomest man of 1974 by readers of the women’s magazine Viva, was now driving me crazy.
‘Adrian,’ he said offhandedly, ‘just call me Adrian.’ He informed me when and where I was expected, and hung up the phone.
Adrian Miele, the living legend, wants to see what we can do together, I thought. The same Adrian Miele who was once the sex god of the Dutch theatre world and who had caused a minor commotion by declaring that the male member was not something to be ashamed of. ‘Vietnam is something to be ashamed of,’ he had said. ‘Korea, that’s something to be ashamed of, but certainly not the male member.’ And this blond faun now wanted to work with me. This was the first time I realised that my life had changed.

I took a taxi to Prinsengracht, where Adrian and Patricia Miele had their little pied-à-terre.
Patricia was waiting for me in the hallway. My footsteps sounded hollow on the marble. It was a long hallway and it took me a good three minutes to reach her outstretched hand. Her actual name was Patricia Zwaardvis. That’s what it always said on the playbill: Adrian Miele and Patricia Zwaardvis. And then the rest of the actors in small print.
She was wearing jeans and a polka-dot shirt. A white sweater was loosely draped over her shoulders. ‘I’m Patricia,’ she said, ‘come on in.’ She didn’t say her last name, which I thought made things easier.
She had on tennis shoes and ran ahead of me. We went down a flight of steps, through the kitchen and then into the living room.
‘I’m afraid it’s too cold to sit in the garden,’ Patricia said.
Adrian, his back turned towards us, was facing the glass doors that opened to the garden. He was barking into a cordless phone. I thought it merely a coincidence that Adrian Miele was barking at someone just as I entered. Later I found out that he barked at everyone he happened to be talking with on the phone. I guess he couldn’t help it. He sometimes even barked at people when he wasn’t on the phone. Especially waitresses and cab drivers.
‘Just throw your coat in a chair,’ Patricia said. ‘That’s what Adrian Miele junior always does.’
At that moment Adrian Miele senior ended his phone conversation with a loud invective. He moved over to me. The bald spots on his head were carefully covered by strands of hair. In a couple of steps he was standing right in front of me. I shook his extended hand and, almost simultaneously, he pushed me down onto the leather couch with his other hand, saying, ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
I now had a view of the fireplace; some forty pine cones were neatly arranged in front of it.
‘Coffee?’ Patricia asked. ‘Espresso?’
‘Delicious.’
‘Wonderful,’ Adrian Miele said. He was now sitting in a black-leather rocking chair. ‘We’re just waiting for Pieter Kortenhoef of Red Sea Productions. We recently started working with Red Sea Productions. Do you know Red Sea Productions? They do theatre, television, movies, you name it.’
I answered that I didn’t know Red Sea Productions, but that this didn’t mean much because I wasn’t very familiar with that world.
Patricia brought me my espresso. Actually, it was just a drop of espresso clinging to the bottom of the cup, as if she had forgotten to do the dishes. Apparently Adrian Miele had noticed me staring into my cup, because he said, ‘Yes, that’s a double espresso. That’s why there’s just a little bit of it. We like that, double strength.’ His voice and posture were those of a real leader.
Patricia handed me a spoon and said, ‘Lovely.’
I didn’t exactly know what to reply, so I simply echoed, ‘Lovely.’
She presented me with a sugar bowl. It was filled with sugar packets from hotels, restaurants, and airline companies.
‘We like young people,’ she said, after I had picked out a packet.
‘We do,’ Adrian Miele said. ‘The younger, the better.’
I took a sip. It was more like sugar with a little drop of coffee in it. ‘Nice and strong, isn’t it?’ Adrian said.
I nodded. Just then, the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ Patricia called out. She put the sugar bowl down on the table and ran to the front door.
Adrian slammed his hand flat on a piece of paper on the table. ‘Does this look familiar to you?’ he asked. I leaned forward. It was an application letter that I myself had written when I was sixteen and that I had sent out to every theatre and production company in the Netherlands. Someone out there will surely be interested in having me as an actor, is what I’d thought. Mistakenly, as it turned out.
Miele grinned at me.
‘You sent one of those to us,’ he said. ‘I’ve been keeping track of you ever since. Kept a little file on you.’
Voices sounded from the kitchen, followed by Patricia’s cooing laughter.
I was wondering how many other people Adrian Miele had kept a little file on.
‘We’ve been following you for all these years,’ Adrian Miele said, ‘and we’ll be following you for the rest of your career.’
It sounded like a threat.
‘Could I have some water, please?’ I asked. My mouth was all sugary.
At that moment Pieter Kortenhoef entered the room. He was wearing a purple blazer. His hair was the colour of mild Gouda cheese. I rose to shake hands, which he did forcefully. Almost simultaneously he handed me a business card. ‘This is me,’ he said pointing at the business card. I looked at the business card.
Pieter Kortenhoef was still standing in front of me, an expectant look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for me to take out my own business card. I didn’t know what to do, so I just said, ‘This is me,’ and pointed at my chest.
Adrian Miele had also risen from his seat. He slapped Kortenhoef amicably on the shoulder and then turned towards me. He was holding a shiny white business card. ‘Let me just gi